He burnt away my eyes,
he said it would make it much easier,
to beg, so I traded it for fear.

I was a little above five, wandering,
on streets a motley of black,
may be not, but my eyes couldn't distinguish the lack.

People would throw coins into my glass,
burnt eyes led to anticipated pitying,
towards the miniaturised cauldron of the dire I lived in.

I went to my master’s garage during my perceived evenings,
my hands felt the swerves of cars and formed shapes in my mind,
and before I departed, I would leave my glass behind.

Blitzed, he would hit me at times I didn’t collect enough,
I wouldn’t run away, the known seemed less horryifying,
than to trip against invisible, in the trying.

I survived each day, stayed thankful for life,
unfair as it may seem, my other senses were in poise,
and I learnt to see through reflections of noise.

He took away my eyes, my dreams stayed invincible,
so I left into a world, incognito,
my master waited for me that night, never to discover though.

I couldn’t steal, so I continued to beg,
I hitchhiked to stores, for a loaf of bread,
but God resolved to bless me with a stranger, instead.

He put me to work, for food and shelter,
little did I know my pay was in kind,
the kind was love, against everything left behind.

Sometimes he read to me, stories with happy endings,
he bid me goodnight before he would move on,
a word I recently learnt, to not be an oxymoron.

He taught me to read in braille,
being blind is no excuse he adjudged to me,
he couldn’t return my sight, so a vision he gave me.

Every night I cried myself to sleep,
for the choking in my throat helped me to believe,
believe in my angel disguised, so I cried myself to sleep.

He gave me fortitude against the vice,
he gave me words, and the power it imbibed,
and he taught me to live, when I just survived.

There are three ways to get to the supermarket
Two ways to get to the beach and four ways
to get out of town when your heading for
the city lights and at least one of those ways
each way, goes past my yard and everyday
he was off to somewhere different but he always
always stopped to admire my roses.
I'd started growing them six years ago
when my Dad started exhibiting a less than
normal glow and I wanted to bring the colour
back to his cheeks, the joy back to his mind and
the simple beauty of life back to his damaged soul
And when the time came to say goodbye there was
12 dozen roses, a rainbow of soft glowing petals
drowning his coffin so I couldn't see the long
wooden box that held my heart as I said goodbye
The sea of colour lives on in my yard, year after year
and the young man that stopped everyday
just to look at the beauty that lived there, being
magnificent, all perfumed and soft and dewy
never said Hello to me, even when I was just wandering
through the aisles of Yellows and Whites and Reds and
the Blue Moons and the Apricot Dreams.
He just looked at me and while I smiled at him
he'd just shake his head and continue to walk on
to the supermarket or the beach or to catch the bus
to the big city. But he never, ever spoke to me.
Not in words anyway...
One day I realized, it had been a little while since
that young man stopped by my yard to gaze at the roses
So I asked around and found that he had passed away
just the other day and that afternoon a young lady
paused at my gate and for the first time somebody
opened it and stepped through to talk to me...
I'm sorry to intrude... but my brother... you see
he was captured in combat and tortured and he
came back different and just recently he started talking
about roses, and how all the colour was gone in the world
except for the one place, down by the sea where life
was a rainbow and if ever he had to go away he wanted
to be covered by the roses down by the sea...
She stopped suddenly with tears in her eyes and waited
and I just silently cut 12 dozen roses to pile into her arms
When the colour goes out of the world and black and white
is more than just reality, when colour blind people can't see
the beauty in a world that is grossly unfair in what it takes away
I whispered into my heart
*Dad if you see that young man with a rainbow of roses
like the ones you held*
make sure  you look after him for me

The heart yearns to live,
to breathe and drink of love,
to drown in the sea of passion,
to frolic in the fields of lust,
savoring the intoxicating aromas,
of a verdent pasture,
alluring and charming.

As I behold the wondrous plethora,
of vibrantly enchanting flowers,
my body dances in awe,
lost in a tantalizing trance,
viewing  the mundane rudiments of nature,
coalescing with the intricate details,
only the soul of an artist may witness.

Out of the corner of my eye,
a lush bush of roses,
red as my cheeks,
blushing among thoughts,
rushing over my form,
as my fingers caress the elder rose,
speaking to my spirit,
with sweet tenderness,
in comparison to the languid sounds,
of typical boisterous shrieks,
emitting from the urban machines,
lacking the genuine melody,
from my serenading rose.

Temptation promotes the courage,
to cup the flower with the palms,
of my hands,
as delightful smells,
tickle my nostrils,
allowing desire to control,
the reigns of the wild stallion,
raging inside this delicate tulip.

After vast contemplation,
from the internal ticking of my chambers,
I retrieve my dagger,
remaining above my thigh,
bound by the fabric of my garments,
slicing the stem of the elder rose,
away from its origin,
catching this marvelous gift of nature,
before the ground can taint,
the petals,
gorgeous yet precariously fragile.

Fear egenders my grasp,
upon this flower to grow fiercely,
giving the roots opportunity,
to manifest into the soil,
of my compassionate touch.
I close my eyes,
envisioning a young maiden,
pplucking the petals off of a rose,
an oscillation of phrases,
swaying from her lips,
"he loves me;
he loves me not".

My eyes trace the nuances,
of the beautiful maiden,
strangely familiar yet intriguingly exotic,
as her eyes flicker,
opening as realization sweeps,
over my being as an epiphany,
restores the memories,
remembering the maiden,
is actually myself,
awakening from the daydream.

My hands rise to share,
their first encounter with my face,
since reaching this new clarity,
as my mind seems to be in a daze,
noticing the scars oozing with crimson tears,
as ache spreads upon me,
while my reality embraces the pain,
bore as thorns,
***** my soft skin,
as I possess the rose,
in my clutched palms.

The elder rose represents all my desires,
unfortunately a mere illusion,
lovely at first glance,
yet neglect of the inevitable thorns,
shall leave my chambers hollow,
ceasing all the flames,
once burnining with intensity,
a threat to the flower,
unscathed  and full of terror.

Reluctantly, I let go of the rose,
tumbling to the ground,
as it bursts into ashes,
leaving my lens to focus,
on simplicities blinded,
by the yearnings of my hearth,
fueled by hopes of the elder rose,
leaving the glass of my heart,
full of wine; no longer half empty.

One day I’ll get to look upon your beautiful face,
no longer dependent on a camera…I’ll witness your beauty with my own two eyes.
One day I’ll touch your beautiful face with my own two hands,
and I’ll look into those gorgeous blue eyes.
I’ll help you build your dreams,
together we’ll face this world.
One day I’ll wrap you in these two arms,
holding you tightly as if I’ll never let go…and I won’t let go.
One day you’ll see…I had every intention of keeping that promise,
the one made so long ago.
One night I’ll take your hands in mine…I’ll lead you outside,
and I’ll dance with you under that star-filled sky.
One night I’ll run my fingers through your hair,
holding you close as you fall asleep.
And one morning I’ll still be there beside you,
waking up to your still beautiful face.
©Rainah J. Tabers
12-23-10
12:12am

Imagine my shock when
a delicate little red bird
flew almost hesitantly
into the bay window of
my mother's house and
childhood home.
Shock isn't the word.
Because I knew the bird
had broken its neck.
It's inevitable.

Nothing ever deserves
to die alone, so I went
outside and looked for it.
Squalling, that if you didn't
know any better,
would sound like a rousing
bird refrain.

The remarkable thing
about a bird's song is that
as humans we cannot tell
what they are singing, but it
sounds heavenly
regardless of whether
or not it just broke its neck
on a window.